happier today,” he says after the waiter has brought our main course, and after I realize I’ve been talking nonstop for twenty minutes. “Has something special happened to cheer you up?”
If he’d asked that same question on the day I went to Parc des Eaux-Vives, I would have blushed and immediately come out with the string of excuses I’d saved up. But today has been another normal, tedious day despite my attempts to convince myself that I’m very important to the world.
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
I take a sip from my third glass of wine and prepare to make a full confession. The waiter arrives and stops me just as I’m about to leap into the abyss. We exchange a few more meaningless words, wasting precious minutes of my life on pointless niceties.
My husband orders another bottle of wine. The waiter wishes us “bon appétit” and goes off to fetch the new bottle. Then I begin.
You’ll say that I need to see a doctor, but I don’t. I cope perfectly well with my work at home and in the office, but for some months now I’ve been feeling sad.
“You could have fooled me. Like I just said, you seem much happier.”
Of course. My sadness has become so routine that no one notices anymore. It’s really good to finally talk about it, but what I have to say runs deeper than that false happiness. I don’t sleep properly anymore. I feel I’m just being self-obsessed, trying to impress people as if I were a child. I cry alone in the shower for no reason. I’ve only really enjoyed making love once in many months, and you know what time I’m talking about. I thought perhaps I was going through a midlife crisis, but that isn’t enough of an explanation. I feel like I’m wasting my life, that one day I’ll look back and regret everything I’ve done, apart from having married you and having our lovely children.
“But isn’t that what matters most?”
For lots of people, yes. But it isn’t enough for me. It’s getting worse every day. When I finally finish my housework each evening, an endless dialogue starts in my head. I’m afraid of things changing, but at the same time I’m dying to experience something different. My thoughts keep repeating themselves uncontrollably. You don’t notice because you’re asleep.For example, did you notice the mistral last night rattling the windows?
“No, the windows were shut.”
That’s what I mean. Even a high wind that has blown thousands of times since we’ve been married is capable of waking me up. I notice when you turn over in bed and when you talk in your sleep. But please don’t take this personally—it seems like I’m surrounded by things that make no sense. Just to be clear, though: I love our children. I love you. I adore my work. But that only makes me feel worse, because I feel I’m being unfair to God, to life, to you.
He’s barely touched his food. It’s as if he were sitting opposite a complete stranger. But saying these words has already filled me with an enormous peace. My secret is out. The wine is having its effect. I am no longer alone. Thank you, Jacob König.
“Do you think you need to see a doctor?”
I don’t know. Even if I did, I don’t want to go down that road. I need to learn how to resolve my problems on my own.
“It must have been very difficult to keep all these emotions to yourself for so long. Thank you for telling me. But why didn’t you tell me before?”
Because it’s only now that things have become unbearable. I was thinking today about my childhood and teenage years. Does the root of all this lie there? I don’t think so, not unless my mind has been lying to me all these years, which I think is unlikely. I come from a normal family, I had a normal upbringing, I lead a normal life. What’s wrong with me?
I didn’t say anything before—I tell him, crying now—because I thought it would pass and I didn’t want to worry you.
“You’re definitely not crazy. I haven’t noticed
If he’d asked that same question on the day I went to Parc des Eaux-Vives, I would have blushed and immediately come out with the string of excuses I’d saved up. But today has been another normal, tedious day despite my attempts to convince myself that I’m very important to the world.
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
I take a sip from my third glass of wine and prepare to make a full confession. The waiter arrives and stops me just as I’m about to leap into the abyss. We exchange a few more meaningless words, wasting precious minutes of my life on pointless niceties.
My husband orders another bottle of wine. The waiter wishes us “bon appétit” and goes off to fetch the new bottle. Then I begin.
You’ll say that I need to see a doctor, but I don’t. I cope perfectly well with my work at home and in the office, but for some months now I’ve been feeling sad.
“You could have fooled me. Like I just said, you seem much happier.”
Of course. My sadness has become so routine that no one notices anymore. It’s really good to finally talk about it, but what I have to say runs deeper than that false happiness. I don’t sleep properly anymore. I feel I’m just being self-obsessed, trying to impress people as if I were a child. I cry alone in the shower for no reason. I’ve only really enjoyed making love once in many months, and you know what time I’m talking about. I thought perhaps I was going through a midlife crisis, but that isn’t enough of an explanation. I feel like I’m wasting my life, that one day I’ll look back and regret everything I’ve done, apart from having married you and having our lovely children.
“But isn’t that what matters most?”
For lots of people, yes. But it isn’t enough for me. It’s getting worse every day. When I finally finish my housework each evening, an endless dialogue starts in my head. I’m afraid of things changing, but at the same time I’m dying to experience something different. My thoughts keep repeating themselves uncontrollably. You don’t notice because you’re asleep.For example, did you notice the mistral last night rattling the windows?
“No, the windows were shut.”
That’s what I mean. Even a high wind that has blown thousands of times since we’ve been married is capable of waking me up. I notice when you turn over in bed and when you talk in your sleep. But please don’t take this personally—it seems like I’m surrounded by things that make no sense. Just to be clear, though: I love our children. I love you. I adore my work. But that only makes me feel worse, because I feel I’m being unfair to God, to life, to you.
He’s barely touched his food. It’s as if he were sitting opposite a complete stranger. But saying these words has already filled me with an enormous peace. My secret is out. The wine is having its effect. I am no longer alone. Thank you, Jacob König.
“Do you think you need to see a doctor?”
I don’t know. Even if I did, I don’t want to go down that road. I need to learn how to resolve my problems on my own.
“It must have been very difficult to keep all these emotions to yourself for so long. Thank you for telling me. But why didn’t you tell me before?”
Because it’s only now that things have become unbearable. I was thinking today about my childhood and teenage years. Does the root of all this lie there? I don’t think so, not unless my mind has been lying to me all these years, which I think is unlikely. I come from a normal family, I had a normal upbringing, I lead a normal life. What’s wrong with me?
I didn’t say anything before—I tell him, crying now—because I thought it would pass and I didn’t want to worry you.
“You’re definitely not crazy. I haven’t noticed
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